


your first kiss goodbye

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A lot of cursing, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassin Bilbo, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, M/M, apart from orcs oops lol, bilbo's a+ assassinating, but bilbo isnt gunning for thorin though, but nobody actually dies, dork thorin, everyone gets shot, gj bilbo, haha puns, he is actually so stupid why did i write this, he's meant to kidnap him, mayor thorin, no really, then they fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-14 02:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5726782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Bilbo was going to be fired for indecency in the workplace, never mind that assassins didn’t actually have a workplace. This was so far from okay. Past the rather pressing fact that Bilbo was a hired killer and Thorin was the mayor of a city, for god’s sake, the man was probably straight anyway.</em>
</p><p>Bilbo Baggins, gun for hire, assassin extraordinaire, is contracted to kidnap Thorin Oakenshield, mayor of Erebor City. Unfortunately a figure from his past is out to get him and the operation goes a little...southwards. Involving guns, swearing, hiding in trees, inconvenient emotions and a whole lot of concealed weapons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your first kiss goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics and title from “You Give Love A Bad Name” by Bon Jovi because the song goes so well with this AU.

The cufflinks were tiny acorns, fashioned from a tarnished bronze, and Bilbo Baggins fiddled with them as he walked. They were seemingly not much to look at: a mere companion to his smart black two-piece suit and red silk tie, but they also contained a small yet deadly dose of pit viper venom which could be administered through their razor-sharp points.

Bilbo could only hope that the fastenings wouldn’t come off. He didn’t much fancy internal haemorrhaging, thank you very much.

In fact, he was very much hoping that nobody would have to die today; the cufflinks were little more than a precaution, which could also be said for the razor-wire in his tie and constructible knife in the frame of his glasses. Today’s operation was well-planned, well-staged, and absolutely nothing could go wrong. Or so Bilbo hoped. Kidnapping the Lord Mayor of one of the world’s major cities was never exactly going to be the simplest task, after all.

Still, he was being paid extremely well. Twenty million for six months’ work. It would seem that the Mafia Head of the neighbouring port wanted Erebor’s mayor desperately, enough to part with a good portion of the money which he so famously craved. Personally Bilbo found the Master, as he so named himself, despicable -- but a job was a job, and Bilbo ended up dealing with his lackey Bard most of the time anyway.

Everything would have been so much simpler if it had merely been an assassination, Bilbo lamented, staring around at the intimidatingly spotless halls which he wandered down. From the floor plans which were by now all but imprinted upon the back of his eyelids, Bilbo knew that the mayor’s office had massive floor-to-ceiling windows. They were supposedly bulletproof, but wouldn’t hold up to a hit from the newest of black market weaponry. Two shots and it'd be over.

Instead Bilbo had to spend half a year emailing back and forth with Erebor’s mayor under a ridiculous guise, pretending to be the secretary of some foreign country’s own ruler, gently prodding and manipulating until the man finally agreed to a meeting. And that was only the set-up. Bilbo would have get the guards out first, subdue the mayor, then somehow get him out of the building without anyone noticing their absence. It was pure luck that Durin Tower had such a comprehensive system of air vents.

Bilbo was distracted from his fretting when his escort, a bald man who looked more suited to bike leathers or perhaps a prison jumpsuit than his Armani two-piece, opened a handsome double-door with a barely veiled glare and a jerk of his tattooed skull. And they called him an _escort_! Bilbo wasn’t fooled; he could very well see the cord spiralling behind the massive man’s torn ear, not to mention the many hallmarks of his obvious military background. Bilbo would know. He had one himself.

In fact, he was forced to repress this very background when he stepped through the door with more confidence than he felt and came face-to-face with His Honour Thorin Oakenshield. The man had an undeniably magnetic air of command about him, and a deeply hidden part of Bilbo wanted to salute. Instead he merely nodded and gave a coolly polite smile.

‘Ecthelion Steward,’ he said, being sure to play up on the accent. ‘It is a pleasure.’

‘Well met, Master Steward,’ Oakenshield replied. He gave a regal tilt of his head; Bilbo didn’t miss his eyes flickering to the tattooed guard, who had situated himself firmly against the wall. ‘It is good to finally put a face to the name.’

Put a face to the name indeed, thought Bilbo. Past the fact that he’d spent a good portion of his waking hours during the past few months studying various pictures of the Lord Mayor, his likeness was splashed across every other billboard in Erebor, looking sternly handsome in some variant of the same black suit. Apparently he was a firm favourite with the people, even at the young age of thirty-seven. Bilbo privately suspected it had a lot to do with said stern handsomeness.

‘You must have travelled a long way. Please, sit.’

Bilbo took the indicated chair, adjusting his blazer. His finger just so happened to brush against the minuscule transmitter in the inseam, switching on the tiny device, which was surprisingly strong but also had a bloody awful battery life. Oakenshield sat across the massive desk, framed impressively against the immense windows which Bilbo had only recently been contemplating. Erebor sprawled out below, a mass of concrete and glass and glinting rivers in the sunlight.

‘So,’ Bilbo began, setting his briefcase on the desk. ‘Concerning the matter of trade deals between our cities—’ he cut himself off, being sure to sound sufficiently irritated as he glanced at the guard still hovering by the door. ‘Master Oakenshield, is it truly necessary for your security to attend this meeting? My information is most private, and I can assure you that I am no threat to your security...unless you believe Gondor to be your enemy.’

Oakenshield levelled his pale gaze onto him for a long while. Bilbo made sure that he only saw the perfect mix of ire and impatience, and it seemed to work; the mayor dismissed his guard with a jerk of his head and a warning glance. Bilbo heard the guard huff in irritation as he slammed the door behind him, and fought back a smug grin.

Too easy. It was too easy.

‘Now,’ Oakenshield said, standing and pacing around the side of the desk to Bilbo’s left. It would seem that he couldn’t sit still for long. ‘What do you have for me, Master Steward?’

Bilbo unlatched his briefcase and reached inside, fingers instantly drawn to the press of cold metal as he drew out the gun and pointed it straight at Oakenshield’s chest. ‘This,’ he replied, very calmly, even though he desperately wanted to cringe at his own cheesiness. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to sit down. No sudden moves, please.’

Oakenshield stayed perfectly still, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Bilbo’s own. A shadow had descended over his sharp features, lowering his brows and curling his lip; overall it would’ve been frightening to a lesser man, or perhaps one who had seen less.

‘See here, Steward—’

‘That isn’t my name. And I wouldn’t do that,’ Bilbo added, watching his intense gaze briefly flick to the door and the guard outside. ‘I can assure you, I am very well-trained, and while I would rather not kill you I would not hesitate to silence you. Do you understand?’

Oakenshield nodded slowly.

‘Good. Sit.’

The mayor was just moving to obey Bilbo’s command when something whipped past the spot where his head had just been and buried itself in the wall. It was, rather unmistakably, a bullet.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Bilbo swore, before launching forwards and tackling Oakenshield beneath the desk. He felt a spray of machine gun fire pass so closely above his head that it stirred his curls, before they were safe behind the sturdy desk, however temporarily. Oakenshield lay stunned, a hand at the bloody furrow carved into his ear, as Bilbo unlocked his phone. ‘Bard!’ he shouted as splinters rained down all around them, the sounds of gunfire deafening. ‘What the _hell_ is going on?’

‘There’s another group gunning for Oakenshield!’ came the harried reply. ‘Maybe Greenwood, maybe Iron Hills — I don’t know! It’s gone badly south, Bilbo, get out of there!’

‘You didn’t tell me there was another group trying to fucking _kill_ him!’ Bilbo snapped, yanking Oakenshield back down from where he’d risen. ‘And exactly on the day of our job? I don’t think so! Bard! _Tell me what’s going on!_ ’

Bard’s reply, whatever it might have been, was cut off by the deafening clatter of helicopter rotors. Bilbo chanced a peek around the desk to see a sleek machine hovering outside the window, and more disturbingly, the man helming a massive assault rifle.

‘Someone _really_ wants you dead,’ Bilbo told Oakenshield. ‘And where the hell is your guard?’

‘I don’t know, he should be out there,’ Oakenshield replied hoarsely. His cropped hair was mussed and he looked on the edge of a panic attack, which Bilbo really _did not have time for_. ‘He should be out there!’

‘Well, he obviously _isn’t_.’ Bilbo turned back to his phone. ‘Bard, they have a copter and they’ve taken out the guards. Help me out here, I’m improvising!’

Bard didn’t reply. They must have cut the signal. ‘Fuck, that’s just fantastic,’ Bilbo cursed, flicking the safety off the semi-automatic pistol which seemed mighty small in comparison to the chopper outside.

Oakenshield was staring at him as if he’d just come to a very disturbing conclusion. ‘You are not from Gondor, are you.’

Bilbo spared a precious moment to stare at him with his face screwed up in disbelief, temporarily lost for words. ‘No _shit_. I actually worry for your city.’ They both ducked as a particularly loud explosion sounded, then a burst of gunfire from the hall outside. ‘Not all dead, then,’ Bilbo breathed. ‘We might actually survive this.’

Oakenshield frowned at him. He now looked oddly similar to the composed man in his war-free office, even with his suit rumpled beyond repair and dried blood streaked down his neck. It was odd when he’d been all but hyperventilating mere minutes before. ‘Do you not want me dead?’

Bilbo drew his belt out from its loops and tore the end off with his teeth. ‘Nope,’ he said, the components of three simple explosives falling into his palm. ‘My client needs information — or you alive, I’m not sure why — and the whole _alive_ thing doesn’t really work out with a bullet lodged in your skull.’

‘Let me guess,’ Oakenshield said, raising an eyebrow. ‘That is left for later?’

A quick grin flitted across Bilbo’s face, surprised out of him by the demonstration of dry wit. ‘Got it in one. But for now, please do try to stay alive, because I don’t get paid if you die.’

‘As you so command,’ Oakenshield said beneath his breath. Bilbo ignored it aside from the tiniest eye roll, setting his wrists on the desk and aiming down the gun barrel at the helicopter, one eye squinting as he did his best to block out the bullets now aimed at him. It wasn’t the first time, and he was willing to bet that it wouldn’t be the last.

‘Oakenshield,’ he grunted, firing at the rifleman as something whizzed past his ear. ‘Can you try and assemble the explosives? They’re fairly simple — all interlocking, like puzzle pieces. Just don’t blow us up.’

‘I have never done anything like this before,’ Oakenshield muttered, but Bilbo heard the giveaway slight shiftings and clicks which meant he obeyed...he seemingly just enjoyed being contrary. Bilbo was having to adjust his perception of what constituted  'mayorly behaviour' almost constantly. Shaking himself from his briefly wandering thoughts, Bilbo focused completely on the gunman, taking him out with a clean shot to the head, giving the same treatment to the man who rushed to take his place. He was then forced to concentrate on the roof of the building behind, where a sniper obviously lay.

A flicker of intuition jabbed at Bilbo’s brain and he jerked to the side, though not swiftly enough to escape the bullet which seared a path through his left shoulder. He set his teeth against the pain and blocked it out, firing back until the magazine ran dry and he was forced to duck back into shelter.

Oakenshield shoved three complete mini-explosives into his palm. ‘Here,’ he said roughly. ‘Kindly refrain from messing this up and blowing us to pieces. Throw properly, will you?’

‘Yes, yes, Your Honour,’ Bilbo snapped, passing the bombs to his other hand and ignoring the burning pain in his left shoulder. ‘I _have_ done this before, you know.’

Ignoring the prickles racing all across his skin at the exposed position, Bilbo rose to his feet and gauged distance, wind, and force. The floor-to-ceiling windows were completely destroyed, wind howling around the outside and catching papers in its grasp, sending the copter lurching violently — likely the only reason they were still alive. Praying that the sniper wouldn’t kill him Bilbo threw the first explosive with all of his strength, the second and third following soon after, and dropped back to shelter.

‘Cover your ears,’ he warned. Oakenshield nodded grimly and uncharacteristically complied without a word of complaint as Bilbo screwed his eyes shut, the explosion deafening even with his ever-present adaptable earplugs, a stunning wave of heat and sound washing over them.

‘Alright,’ Bilbo gasped, barely able to hear himself. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He grabbed the evidently-dazed Oakenshield’s shoulder and towed him along, darting to the door and slamming it behind them. The sound of bullets digging into the aged wood was unmistakeable and he gave a slightly crazed bark of laughter and flipped off the door. ‘Suck it, Defiler!’ he shouted. There was only one person it could be, after all. He always snapped up anything to do with Bilbo.

The diminutive assassin wasn't given long to gloat before an explosion rocked the floor, Oakenshield stumbling into the cream wallpaper as Bilbo tore off his glasses with a curse. It didn’t take long to assemble the slender stiletto knife and he dropped the gutted glasses when he finished.

Oakenshield was staring at the stiletto with unimpressed eyes.

‘A knife,’ he said. ‘A fucking _knife_. In your _glasses_.’

‘Yes, there’s a knife in my glasses, but there’s also poisonous gas in my shoes and I don’t hear you complaining about that,’ Bilbo replied archly, inwardly lamenting the loss of his pistol. He swiftly glanced around the corridor — deserted — as Oakenshield stared at him with narrowed eyes.

‘Why in your shoes?’

Bilbo snorted. ‘Tauriel thinks she’s hilarious. Now hold your tongue and follow me, and kindly  _stay behind_.’

He took off down the corridor swiftly and silently, relaxing when he heard the telltale signs of Oakenshield following but wincing a little at his complete lack of stealth. All this mayorly racket. Mayorish? Mayorlike? Who knows.

Bilbo wasn't allowed to hesitate when a figure in ragged brown leather rounded the corner, flicking his fingers out and watching as it collapsed like a cut-free marionette, the knife buried between its eyes.

‘Shit,’ Oakenshield swore roughly.

‘You’re not going to be sick, are you?’ Bilbo asked, mildly concerned as he tugged the knife free. ‘Because this suit was expensive.’

‘I am _not_ ,’ Oakenshield snapped, sounding almost offended as he came to stand beside Bilbo. The smaller man could feel his blue eyes boring into his back. ‘How did you know it was not one of mine?’

Bilbo could tell by the clothing, of course — only Gundabad’s Orcs wore those — but he wanted to mess around a little. Respect was always useful in his job, even fear if he could wrangle it. ‘I didn’t,’ he threw over his shoulder, grinning at a nearby Monet as Oakenshield spluttered behind him.

Before long they’d reached the elevator, a trail of leather-clad bodies was strewn behind them. Bilbo had managed his work in absolute silence, and though the other man had also stayed quiet Bilbo had noticed his face becoming paler and paler with each new kill. When they finally reached the smooth silver doors he flicked a crimson droplet from his finger, scrunching up his nose at the sight. Oakenshield followed its path with dazed eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ Bilbo asked, then blinked. Why did he care, again? He was supposed to be kidnapping this man. Over and out. Deliver him to the Master’s greasy paws, and quite possibly to a stretching rack. He shouldn’t care if he was feeling a little _queasy_ , Yavanna’s sake.

‘Fine,’ the mayor rasped. Bilbo sighed at the blatant lie and stepped into the elevator.

Oakenshield stared as he began to toe off his shoes.

‘What are you doing?’

Bilbo winked. ‘Planning a little distraction.’ He jumped back out smartly as the doors began to close, leaving only a pair of smart black loafers.  His plot clicked in Oakenshield’s mind and the man grinned for the first time, his teeth bright against his neat beard. 

‘How interesting.’

‘Indeed,’ Bilbo said breezily, and took off down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

It must be said that his plan worked better than expected. By the time Bilbo led Oakenshield out of the stairwell and onto the first floor lobby, it was to see a dozen Orcs catatonic on the opulent rug. Unfortunately one had managed to escape the effects of the gas concealed within the loafers, and had not taken kindly to his friends’ deaths; Bilbo had managed to take him down with an acorn cufflink to his eye but not before he shot Oakenshield in the arm.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Oakenshield bellowed. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck _fuck!_ ’

Bilbo scowled up at him from where he was binding his bicep with a scrap of his blazer. He mourned the loss, but after his shoulder-shot it had been pretty much unsalvageable anyway; still, at Oakenshield’s whining he was heavily tempted to simply let him bleed out onto the expensive wooden floors.

‘Will you cease your complaining?’ Bilbo asked testily. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘Fine?’ Oakenshield all but shrieked. ‘Fine? I was just _shot in the fucking arm_!’

‘Well, so was I, and you don’t see me bitching about it,’ Bilbo snapped. Oakenshield’s eyes jumped to the torn wound in his shoulder, which he had apparently not noticed. The mayor was so blindly unobservant it was honestly a surprise he hadn’t already been assassinated.

‘I didn't see that,’ the mayor frowned. ‘How are you not in pain?’

Bilbo huffed. ‘Oh, I am, I’m just used to it.’ The binding finished, he sat back on his heels with a sigh and raked his hand through his dishevelled curls as he considered the situation. No gun, no knife, no blazer, no shoes, and one whiny Lord Mayor. And a whole bunch of assassins who apparently wanted to kill his mark and now probably him as well. Great. Just great.

And Azog. Couldn’t forget Azog.

The man seemed to have held a grudge against Bilbo ever since he sent his wife and child's car off a cliff. Couldn’t imagine why. It had been a job, for mercy’s sake, Bilbo hadn’t really had a choice, but the damned hardhead never seemed to have understood that.

‘Right,’ Bilbo sighed, staring consideringly at the great glass revolving door. There were police cars pulling up outside, wailing and flashing, and he really didn’t want to explain…well, _anything_. Oakenshield could do all that later, pull strings or whatever it is important people do. If he hadn’t been killed already by the Master, that was.

Bilbo turned his mind to planning, as he always did whenever emotions he didn’t want turned up. Especially those to do with his targets. ‘We need to get out of here somehow.’ He pulled off his tie, unpicking the end and drawing out the razor wire. ‘I think I have an idea.’

‘Great. Let’s hope that it plays out more smoothly this time, yes? I don't fancy being shot again.’

‘Oh, hush, you big baby,’ Bilbo sighed, ignoring Oakenshield’s indignant squawk. ‘It was a clean shot. Not one muscle was torn. _Not one._ Do you know how lucky you are? Torn muscles are bloody painful.’ His hand automatically went to his stomach, where bloody Azog shot three bullets through him last year. Bilbo had gotten him back by chopping off his hand a month later. Ha. Have fun shooting with that, bastard. Azog’s prosthetic was likely the reason why Bilbo wasn’t choking on his blood right now.

He noticed Oakenshield’s intense eyes on the spot beneath his hand and quickly moved it away, rising to his feet and stretching. ‘Right. Let’s be off,’ he said, groaning as his back cracked. He was getting to old for this shit, never mind that he was only thirty-four. Contract killing was a difficult business.

‘Alright,’ Oakenshield muttered as he turned away, a frown darkening his face, though Bilbo didn’t pay much mind to it. The sounds of the mayor struggling to stand filtered in through the background as he studied the police cars outside, running the razor wire carefully through his fingers.

 

* * *

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Oakenshield muttered as he swayed on the thick oaken branch, clutching at the tree’s trunk with a scowl. ‘Maybe this is not the best idea?’

Bilbo sniggered up at him from where he crouched amid the roots below. ‘Oh, hush you. When have my plans ever failed?’

Oakenshield let out a grumble that sounded suspiciously like _when you got me shot in the arm_ but the mayor wisely didn’t raise his voice, well knowing how irritated Bilbo could get with his whinging. It appeared that Bilbo was training him well.

Bilbo almost blushed at the sudden thought. Where the hell had _that_ come from? He was a middle-aged assassin, not some sort of…dominatrix. God. He didn’t even want to do anything like _that_ to Oakenshield. He didn’t. And the matter would not be discussed further. With himself.

He was going round the bend, he knew it.

A telltale snap sounded through the silent park and Bilbo dropped his voice and whispered ‘They’re coming,’ ducking down lower into his hiding spot. He dared a glance at Oakenshield, seeing the man perching and scowling into the park’s gathering darkness like some sort of besuited bird with anger issues. He’d been surprisingly agile climbing down the tree from Durin Tower’s second-floor window, though Bilbo supposed it had something to do with the width of his shoulders and the corded strength of his forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his collared shirt, clinging to the muscles of his back — all right, _enough_. He was a hit. A target. And Bilbo _did not fraternise with targets_. Only imagining Oakenshield as little more than a circular wooden construction painted with rings didn’t work too well when he was being so inconveniently attractive, and also constantly bitching about some thing or another. Bilbo thought Lord Mayors were supposed to be _mature_. Apparently he was wrong.

‘Why are we running from the police, anyway?’ Oakenshield’s whispered complaint carried down to him, right on time. Thank god the man at least had the presence of mind to speak softly…but he was still an idiot.

Bilbo glared up into the tree, even though the _are-you-an-idiot_ look would be invisible in the darkness. ‘Because I am a _paid assassin,_ not to mention the fact that I just killed about twenty people, and you witnessed it, without lifting so much as a finger, may I add. You can bribe them all of later, just maybe not when we’ve got Azog the Defiler gunning for us, along with half of Gundabad, yeah?’

‘… I suppose that makes sense,’ Oakenshield muttered grudgingly. Bilbo smirked into the grass, peering around the dark park from beneath his curls. Some part of him quietly mourned his now _entirely_ destroyed suit, likely covered in mud and grass, and oh yes, _blood_. Damn it. He was so charging the Master extra for expenses.

He tried not to look at Oakenshield as he wriggled around to grab one of the Orcs’ plundered rifles. Explosions, they would distract him from inconvenient emotions, right? Or so he hoped. Weren’t assassins supposed to be emotionless machines? Where did this whiny, unobservant, complete idiot of a mayor get off worming into his sympathies? Bilbo had shot more attractive people in the past without caring one whit. It couldn’t be that. And his personality was frankly awful, and he would be completely useless in a fight. So what the hell was it about Oakenshield that made him so special?

Bilbo’s mental whining was cut off when a number of shadows flitting behind a nearby row of beeches made themselves known. The park neighbouring Durin Tower was eerily silent after the chaos within; either the police and Oakenshield’s security had managed to subdue the Orcs, or the two sides were at a stalemate. Or they’d just run out of ammo.

‘You ready?’ he whispered up to Oakenshield.

‘I don’t know, ask the six flash bombs lined up on the branch beside me,’ came the mayor’s snarky reply. Bilbo grinned briefly and clicked the safety off the slender rifle, peering across the wide swathe of asphalt before them. He’d shot out tires before, hopefully it wouldn’t be difficult as he remembered.

‘Is that sarcasm, Your Honour?’ he snickered, sighting down the barrel. Oakenshield heaved an extravagant sigh from above him; Bilbo could practically _see_ his icy eyes roll.

‘Unusual levity for a man about to engage in a gunfight.’

‘Comes with the job, Oakenshield.’

‘Thorin.’

‘What?’

‘Thorin.’

‘Yes, I heard that the first time.’

‘It’s my name.’

It was Bilbo’s turn to sigh loudly. ‘Congratulations. You know your own name. Want a gold star?’

Oakenshield’s irate tut was loud through the silence. ‘It’s my name, _so use it_.’

Bilbo dropped his eyes back to his rifle, struggling to regain his sassy levity but finding only an odd heavy feeling. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,’ he warned faintly. ‘Establishing your humanity and all that. Evoking pity.’

‘Darn, you caught me,’ the mayor replied, his voice so full of sarcasm Bilbo actually winced. ‘Ever think that maybe not everyone is as suspicious and-or homicidal as you?’

‘Comes with the job,’ Bilbo said, the words this time much more serious. He frowned heavily down the rifle’s barrel and refused to think about Th— Oakenshield any more than absolutely necessary. He was already in too deep as it was — and there was the slight matter of a large group of contract killers being out for his blood, as well as the police swarming like ants. He didn’t have time for some preteen identity crisis, damn it.

‘So, what’s your name?’ said the very subject of said preteen identity crisis. ‘Because I do not think it to actually be Ecthelion Steward.’

‘Well, you’re right,’ Bilbo ceded, then correctly predicting Thorin’s victorious smirk added on, ‘but I’m still not telling you.’

Thorin just _tsk_ ed.

A distant bird’s trill brought Bilbo back to himself — oh yeah, the _plan_ — and he scowled concertedly into the night. ’Right, get ready,’ he muttered, more to himself than Thorin — dammit, _Oakenshield_ — as the sounds of a number of car engines whispered up the road. He brought the sight to his eye as a fleet of police cruisers rushed down the road, sirens off — all hell broke loose as the first three hit the length of razor wire, losing control and skidding with a squeal of punctured tires. Two others were brought down when they slammed into the unruly cars, another flipping fender-over-fender in a sight Bilbo thought only existed in movies, leaving half a dozen cruisers for he and Thorin to deal with. He managed to shoot the tires out of two of them before their doors began to slam open — he heard a soft grunt from above and moments later the night lit up with blinding light. Luckily for Bilbo the sound had been enough and he’d been spared blindness by burying his face in his arms. Quickly he incapacitated the last four before slinging the rifle over his shoulder and leaping to his feet. ‘Get down here!’ he hissed, vibrating with tension. ‘They won’t stay dazzled forever!’

Bilbo didn’t betray his surprise by flinching when Thorin dropped to a crouch beside him with only a muted thud, but later as they tore through the neat parklands, Bilbo wondering why this damned park had to be so damned massive and also lamenting his hate for exercise and subsequent unfitness, he laughed a little breathlessly.

‘What?’ Thorin asked, irritatingly composed as they darted past a frankly awful fountain. Bilbo grinned at him through the darkness, certain that his eyes looked more than a little insane from the adrenaline rushing through him.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re not awkward in _everything_ you do.’

‘I do not appreciate the emphasis on _everything_ ,’ Thorin replied archly, but Bilbo could see a tiny returning smile tugging at his mouth anyway. Bilbo stumbled to a stop before he could think on _that_ too much, leaning against a nearby tree with breaths that rasped at his throat.

‘This should be far enough.’ He winced at the raw feeling in his lungs, rubbing his hand against it and unshouldering the rifle with his other. ‘God, I really need to exercise more. And maybe cut down on cake.’

‘No!’ Thorin snapped, before blinking owlishly and looking surprised at himself. ‘I mean…ah, that is not necessary.’

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at the slight redness tinting the mayor’s ears. Dammit, the gods were testing him. There was no other explanation. Thorin was nearly forty for pity’s sake, he shouldn’t be _anything_ approaching…

No, Bilbo wasn’t going to think it. He _wasn’t_. Thorin was a target and nothing more. And Bilbo had just been mentally referring to him as his first name the entire time, hadn’t he? Well, perfect. Absolutely spiffing. Bilbo was going to be fired for indecency in the workplace, never mind that assassins didn’t actually have a workplace. This was _so far from_ _okay_. Past the rather pressing fact that Bilbo was a hired killer and Thorin was the mayor of a city, for god’s sake, the man was probably straight anyway. He _looked_ straight. Bilbo mentally slapped himself for thinking that.

‘See,’ he said, finally regaining his voice. ‘Not _everything_.’

Thorin just scowled at him, his ears still glowing, and Bilbo grinned impishly.

Then he was shot in the leg.

‘ _Fuck_!’ he shouted, dropping to the grass instinctively as another bullet snapped through the spot where his neck had been not seconds before. He dimly registered Thorin tugging him beneath a nearby bush as pain scorched through his body and rang deafeningly in his ears, warm liquid gushing down his leg from the new hole in his thigh. ‘Fuck,’ Bilbo cursed again, spitting out blood from where he bit his tongue. ‘Dammit, Azog _,_ you little _fucker_ , I am so going to cut off your arm completely this time!’

He heard Thorin choke out a strained laugh as he tore a strip from his shirt, and dammit Bilbo was completely delirious because there were fucking _bullets_ flying all around them and he couldn’t take his eyes off the tanned skin exposed. ‘Hold this,’ Thorin instructed, pressing the cloth to Bilbo’s thigh, and if he hadn’t been so busy cursing Azog in every language he knew he would’ve started shouting at him, which was probably good because if the man abandoned him now he would probably _die_. Shit.

‘Baggins, I didn’t come here for hide and seek!’ came a roar from nearby. Bilbo gave a slightly hysterical laugh. Oh, yes, he had definitely cracked.

‘Well, what the fuck are you here then for, you bloody albino reprobate! Fuck right off to your nasty shithole you call a house, why don’t you!’ he shouted right back, ignoring the way it tore at his throat and Thorin buried his face in his hands. ‘Or maybe I’ll blow your dick off, how about that?’

‘I came here for your head, you mutant squirrel!’ came Azog’s reply. It was much closer now and Thorin raised his eyebrows sardonically at Bilbo, who rolled his eyes. ‘I will kill you as you did my wife and child!’

‘That was _twenty years ago,_ for fuck’s sake!’ Bilbo barked. ‘Get over it! And Bolg was a whiny shit, I know you hated him. Don’t even get me started on what _you_ did to _your wife_.’

‘Now,’ Thorin hissed as Azog bellowed in wordless rage, ‘would be a good time to _shut up_.’

‘Don’t you get on my fucking case,’ Bilbo snapped, but he knew that he was being childish and held his tongue as Azog raged and stormed, bulldozing through the peaceful parkland like a bull through matchsticks. Bilbo wriggled forwards with a wince and snagged his rifle, checking the magazine. There were only three bullets left. He let out a hissing breath through his teeth. ‘Fuck. Right,’ he said, shoving the gun at Thorin. ‘Take this.’

Thorin stared at the rifle like it was a live adder. ‘I’ve never even _touched_ one of these things before,’ he protested, his glowing blue eyes flicking back up to Bilbo. The assassin blinked at him, dumbstruck.

‘Never even — fuck, okay. Right. It’s a bolt action, so you have to take this here—’ he deftly grabbed the handle protruding over the stock— ‘and pull it back to load the bullet.’ Bilbo performed the movement slowly, hoping that Thorin would get it. ‘The safety’s here, and I should hope that you know how to pull a trigger. Point the business end at an Orc and fire. Make sure it _is_ an Orc, by the way, I’ve been shot too many times in my life to be killed by a whiny mayor.’

Thorin spluttered for a moment, presumably at the _whiny mayor_ part, before taking the gun and mimicking the actions. Something seemed to come to him and he glanced up at Bilbo with a frown. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ Bilbo grinned innocently as he drew a karambit from the hem of his shirt. ‘I’m set.’

‘Jesus Christ, did Dwalin even _search_ you?’ Thorin said, ogling the claw-like knife. ‘How many concealed weapons do you _have_?’

‘More than you’ll ever know,’ Bilbo smirked. He left off the invitation for Thorin to search for them all — because _for pity’s sake, now was so not the time!_ Azog had gone scarily silent and a distant clattering filled the air — so the police had found Gundabad’s finest. Bilbo could only hope that Thorin would be able to pin their attack on the cruisers on the Orcs instead.

A prickle ran up Bilbo’s neck, the sign of an deeply-settled instinct Bilbo knew better than to ignore. He glanced at Thorin and pressed his finger to his lips briefly, feeling them twitch at the mayor’s sardonic mouth of _no shit_ , and slid out from under the bush. Sure enough, there was Azog, a pale mass of muscles and scars beneath the dramatic light of the moon. Upon seeing Bilbo stand he exposed his filed teeth in something more of a snarl than a grin, the snub gun in his hand pointed straight between his eyes. Bilbo could only run his fingers over the karambit in his pocket and thank the heavens that Azog was a talker.

‘Bilbo Baggins,’ Azog snarled, and all Bilbo could think was _well, there goes my secrecy. Thorin will definitely have to die now._ ‘I knew you’d be stupid enough to face me.’

Bilbo smiled lopsidedly through the sudden and mysterious ache in his heart, scratching one hand against his nape while he scrunched up his nose and cursed inwardly at the shifting sounds from Thorin’s position. Fucking mayorly racket. He needed to _stop moving_.

‘Well,’ he said especially loudly. ‘I do so love seeing your face. Reminds me of your dear wife an a bulldog simultaneously, oddly enough.’

There came a soft _slap_ which Bilbo was fairly sure heralded Thorin hitting his palm against his own forehead in frustration.

‘You won’t be seeing it for much longer,’ Azog said in a voice of blood and gravel, sighting down the gun with one ice-blue eye.

‘Thank god for that,’ Bilbo sighed and flicked out his right hand in a blur of movement. He only had time to watch the blade flash towards Azog’s chest before the bright explosion of gunpowder and an ear-breaking _crack_ claimed his attention. Knowledge of his impending death froze him — then something slammed into him and threw him to the side, and the world became a whirl of pain and movement and grass slamming into his face, heat burning through his nose as it gave a grisly crack.

But Bilbo was too busy scrambling to his feet and staring at the man who had just _taken a fucking bullet for him_.

‘THORIN OAKENSHIELD YOU ABSOLUTE _ASSHOLE_ ,’ Bilbo shrieked. A wave of relief dissolved the icy knot in his chest somewhat as Thorin stirred and groaned, but there was still way too much blood splashed around for Bilbo’s comfort and he resolved to give the imbecile a proper dressing down after _dealing with_ Azog. He turned to Azog with murder in his eyes and his last weapon at his wrist. ‘That was my fucking _mark_ , you dipshit!’

‘Oh, he was just your mark? How disappointing.’ Azog gave a ghastly smile as he drew the karambit from his shoulder. ‘I thought he was actually important. Sorry, mate,’ he told the possibly fatally injured mayor. ‘Not your fault you were targeted by this squirt.’

‘You are actually _such a dick_ ,’ Thorin rasped, and Bilbo could think of a number of things which fuelled his hysterical laugh — relief, amusement, insanity — but really he knew it to be the first. Thorin was _alive_ and Bilbo was avidly thanking any god who would listen…and really he knew it wasn’t just because he’d be short of a few million if he died.

Bilbo was again reminded of his god-awful timing of epiphanies by Azog reaching for his gun. ‘Oh no you don’t, you little fucker,’ he snarled beneath his breath, diving head-on at the other assassin. He had no clue where Thorin’s rifle went and didn’t have time to look — he’d probably thrown it aside in his nobly retarded charge. The next few moments were a mad scramble as the two fought for the gun, Azog kicking Bilbo’s ribs, Bilbo poking his left eye, Azog biting his hand, Bilbo headbutting him soundly and managing to tear off his prosthetic. A shot of relief hit Bilbo’s chest as his fingers brushed against the gun but Azog seemed to have remembered his vastly superior size and strength at that moment, digging his knee into Bilbo’s back and pressing him into the dirt. He spat curses and snatched for the gun, but it disappeared before he could; the mystery of its whereabouts was abruptly solved when he felt cold metal digging into the nape of his neck.

‘A swift death isn’t good enough for you, but it’ll have to — _urk_!’

Bilbo rolled away from Azog’s thrashing form, staring down at him disdainfully as his chest heaved and his hair stood up in muddy curls and dirt streaked his face and blood oozed sluggishly from his shoulder and thigh. ‘You talk too fucking much,’ he snarled, and watched as the snake venom did its job and death fogged Azog’s tiny eyes, a thin trickle of dark blood winding down from the little bronze acorn embedded in his neck.

Bilbo stared unblinkingly  at the dead form of his nemesis for what felt like an eternity before a loud swear from behind brought him back to life, and the plight of a certain Thorin Oakenshield.

‘Shit, you choose this time to be a bloody hero?’ he hissed, dropping to his knees beside the thrashing mayor and gently pulling up the hem of his shirt (desperately banishing any of the _highly inappropriate_ thoughts which may or may not have surfaced). Thorin was extremely lucky — the bullet had bored a neat hole through his side, in a spot where no arteries or organs resided. Cheeky bastard indeed. Scaring him for nothing.

Thorin gave a choked cough, his wide eyes fixed on Azog’s still body. ‘Fuck,’ he gasped. ‘I’m never looking at cufflinks the same again.’

‘ _That’s all you can say_?’ Bilbo shrieked, angry beyond words for a tangled mess of reasons which he didn’t even want to think about. ‘You’ve been shot in the side, you’re fucking bleeding out onto the grass! You haven’t even complained once!’

‘Well,’ Thorin rasped and grinned up at him through his dark beard. His eyes seemed even bluer in the moonlight, his hair a cropped shadow shot through with silver streaks which Bilbo somehow hadn’t noticed before. Even with his bloody shirt and ripped slacks and single missing shoe he looked ridiculously beautiful and it _really wasn’t fair_. ‘I can whine if you so want me to.’

‘Oh, shut _up_ ,’ Bilbo huffed, before leaning down to kiss the idiotic grin off that stupid face. And stayed there. For a while. A position which Thorin certainly wasn’t opposed to, if the hand which he tangled in Bilbo’s gritty curls was any indication, not to mention the enthusiastic press of his tongue against Bilbo’s own and the rasping breaths he panted into the smaller man’s mouth.

Eventually Bilbo had to pull back, breathless and so red that he must’ve been glowing through the darkness. He studied Thorin’s face quickly — he _had_ just been shot, and he wasn’t exactly used to it. ‘Are you in pain? Uncomfortable?’ he asked with a small frown, mentally cursing Azog for what would probably not be the last time.

‘Yes, I am,’ Thorin replied solemnly. ‘I am really, _really_ fucking hungry.’

So they found themselves in the warm yellow light of a late-night diner, bleeding all over the checkered tablecloth as the waitresses eyed them with pale faces and the digital clock blinked _four thirty-two am_ , stuffing their faces with burgers and fries and unable to keep their eyes off each other as they grinned like absolute loons.

‘So,’ Thorin said lowly, his tone thick with repressed amusement. ‘Where to now, _Bilbo Baggins_?’

Bilbo munched on a fry as he scrunched up his nose and pretended to think. ‘Well, _Thorin Oakenshield_ ,’ he replied, swallowing, ‘Erebor is beginning to grow on me.’ He cast one look at Thorin’s smug smirk and rolled his eyes. ‘ _The city_ , thank you.’

‘Nothing but the city?’ Thorin hummed, leaning in so that Bilbo could see the amusement glittering in those stupidly pretty pale-blue eyes.

‘Absolutely nothing,’ Bilbo said cheerily, before grabbing his face with both hands and drawing him in to what was likely the most eager kiss ever initiated.

It was safe to say that the Master of bloody Laketown wouldn’t be getting _his_ Thorin any time soon.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. 
> 
> Oops seven thousand words haha lol, my fingers slipped?
> 
> I actually am not sure about how I rated this, so feel free to poke me if you think it should be M and/or have Archive Warnings. Also please poke me about anything you didn't like/I could improve on :))
> 
> Yeah I really didn't like this one but I thought I'd post it anyway cause its just been sitting there eheheh


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